


I Caught Myself Smiling

by Copgirl1964



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Mystrade Advent Calendar, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 12:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12958902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/pseuds/Copgirl1964
Summary: "Father Christmas is a portly, warm-blooded man so perhaps our Mr Holmes should try his hand at Jack Skellington.”Mycroft is rudely dismissed as the possible Father Christmas at the Ministry's Christmas party. Fortunately, he has a loving partner who not only comforts him but also has an idea.





	I Caught Myself Smiling

The roar of laughter was still ringing in Mycroft's ears when he closed the door to his office.  
Leaning against the hard wooden surface, he concentrated on his breathing, trying to calm his nerves.

Had anybody told Mycroft in his youth that one day he would be laughed at because he was too thin he would have recommended they had their brain checked. But here he was, deemed too skinny to play Father Christmas for the children at the upcoming Christmas party for the family members of the Ministry. 

"Father Christmas is a portly, warm-blooded man so perhaps our Mr Holmes should try his hand at Jack Skellington,” the Home Secretary had said brusquely before Mycroft had even left the room.

“There are certainly enough similarities,” the Home Secretary’s PA had sneered and the gathered men in the room had burst into boisterous laughter.

Mycroft Holmes was not a man who would be ridiculed without consequences. The Home Secretary and his PA would be punished in due course but at this very moment the men’s words hurt. Mycroft wondered when he had become more thin-skinned than he used to be because he was acutely aware of the sting the words had left.

Allowing himself an unhealthy dose of self-pity, Mycroft decided eventually that the remarks about his physical appearance most likely had been an excuse but he sucked in the non-existing swell of his stomach nonetheless. 

When he had told Sherlock some months prior that he wasn't good with humans Mycroft hadn't exaggerated. He had always adored his younger siblings but even as a child his efforts to interact with them had been clumsy; to put it mildly. His mother had called him 'idiot-boy' but had refrained from showing him how to do it right. As a result he had made enough poor choices to thoroughly alienate both his baby-brother and -sister who responded to his love and attention with spite. 

'No', Mycroft decided, 'I'm not Father Christmas material and the dismissal was for the best.'  
Checking his watch he was relieved that it was time to head home, and that's what he did. 

Home. Less than a year ago Mycroft Holmes hadn't had much of a reason to leave his office and go to the place he called home although it didn't feel like one. Then the incident at Sherrinford had occurred and a couple of days later Greg Lestrade had knocked on his door. The DI had stood on Mycroft's doorstep with an almost apologetic expression and had offered a sympathetic ear because Sherlock had told him that Mycroft wasn't as strong as he liked to think he was. 

Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes had known each other for many years but never visited each others respective homes. The moment Gregory had set foot into Mycroft's house the whole building had undergone a transformation. With his presence alone the DI seemed to have enchanted the rooms, had turned darkness into light, coldness into warmth and the building Mycroft lived in into a home.

For once Mycroft had not only recognized the chance that was being offered but had grabbed it with both hands and within a month his and Gregory’s relationship had changed from friendship to being lovers. Now he looked forward to coming home.

 

Once Mycroft had stepped through the door, he put down his briefcase and bent down to unlace his shoes before he took off his coat. The sounds coming from the kitchen indicated that Gregory had come over and was cooking their dinner. Walking up to the man who had just stopped chopping tomatoes in order to give the contents in a pot that sat on the stove a good stir, Mycroft peered over Greg’s shoulder, resting his chin on the cotton of his shirt.

“Tomato soup with ginger and garlic?” 

“Yes, and bread is in the oven.” Greg turned his head slightly to smile at Mycroft. “Just for you.”  
Mycroft kissed his cheek. He loved that soup. From the long list of home cooked dishes, this was on the very top of it. Gregory only made it for him, preferring heartier dishes himself, which made it even more special. 

Placing his hands on Greg’s hips, Mycroft kissed the short grey hair. Being rewarded with a soft hum of appreciation Mycroft realized that he loved that man so much it almost physically hurt. He wrapped his arms around Greg's middle and gave him a quick squeeze. 

Adding the chopped tomatoes to the contents already in the pot, Greg gave it another quick stir before setting the timer. He turned in Mycroft’s arms, kissed his chin and studied his face. “You look tired, love. Busy day?”

Mycroft leaned into the palm that came up and cradled his cheek. “Not very but..” His voice trailed off.

Furrowing his brow, Greg tugged him down to sit at the kitchen table before pouring them both a glass of wine. Pulling up a chair to sit across from him, Greg took Mycroft’s left hand in his and caressed it with his thumb.

“Tell me about it,” Greg requested softly and Mycroft, finding reassurance and compassion in the warm brown eyes of his lover, nodded his agreement.

“It is a good tradition of the Ministry that every year a Christmas party is held on the last working day before Christmas. The party is not only for the working staff but also their families. Each year another department has to organize it and this year it’s our turn.” Mycroft took a sip of his wine.  
“Among other things it entails that the organizing department provides a person who’d dress up as Father Christmas and hands out presents to the children.”

“Let me guess,” Greg grinned. “They decided you have to do it this year.” 

The broad grin quickly died on his lips when Mycroft’s expression became pained and downcast.  
Greg quickly put down his glass and took Mycroft’s hand in both of his. “What happened?” 

“Against my better judgement I actually offered to be Father Christmas and.. ah.. they turned me down.” Mycroft tried to sound indifferent but Greg saw through it easily. 

“What did they say?” 

“I don’t think I want to recall their exact words but apparently I’m considered too cold-blooded to be even in the presence of children.”

Mycroft had spoken softly but the pain was all too apparent.

“Oh love, I’m so sorry. Especially for what I’ve just said. I should have known better.” Greg moved his chair to pull Mycroft close, who leaned into the embrace with a sigh.

“You couldn’t have known, Gregory. Before I spoke the words, said, that I’d like to do it, I didn’t know myself.” He swallowed audibly. “It’s probably for the best.”

“That’s nonsense,” Greg burst out. “I know that you don’t feel comfortable around children but when you set your mind on doing something you’re amazing and...” The alarm of the timer interrupted Greg who quickly went to pull the pot from the stove before he returned to the table and seated himself right next to Mycroft. Putting his palm against Mycroft’s chest, Greg felt the strong heartbeat. 

“Listen, you hide your heart incredibly well and that may give people the impression that you don’t care but we both know that that’s not true.” Greg stopped and blinked a couple of times, clearly having an idea.

“Gregory?”

Greg shook his head, for the moment unwilling to share his thoughts. He took Mycroft’s face in his hands and kissed him softly before he spoke again. “Why don’t we eat before that soup gets cold and afterwards I’ll try to make you forget not only what happened today but perhaps anything but my name?” The man’s grin turned positively wicked and Mycroft felt heat creep up his neck and pool low in his belly.

“That doesn’t sound like a terrible idea,” he admitted.

“Good,” Greg replied, kissed the tip of Mycroft’s nose, winked at him and got up to give their meal a finishing touch.

* * *

A few days later Greg sent Mycroft a text from the office.

_‘Are you free on Friday, 22nd December, ~17.00 to 19.00?’_

Mycroft replied, once he had checked his calendar.

_‘I believe I am.’_

_‘Fabs. Pencil it in please. Details tonight. Gx’_

Being busy with various meetings, conference calls and checking the final arrangements Anthea had made for the Home Secretary who would fly to Afghanistan for New Year’s Eve to visit British troops stationed there, Mycroft forgot all about the text until it was time to head home. 

It was dark already when he finally sat in the comfortable limousine that was only to stop at a Turkish restaurant for him to pick up food before delivering him at the doorsteps of his house. Watching the light sleet that turned the London traffic into a somewhat slippery affair, Mycroft remembered the text Greg had sent him earlier. He pulled out his phone but the text contained nothing but the time and date. Last weekend they had talked about the opening of a new exhibition at the National Gallery though and Mycroft wondered if Greg had managed to get them invitations for the vernissage.

The DI arrived a half an hour later than Mycroft. He carried a garment bag which he hung on the coat rack before he took off his coat and scarf and exchanged his shoes for well-worn slippers. Hurrying into the living-room he was happy to find Mycroft sipping from a whisky tumbler while warming himself in front of the fireplace. 

The quick welcoming kiss Greg received tasted of one of the expensive single malts Mycroft liked. Greg spent a minute or two turning this way and that in front of the fireplace, and only when the heat of the flames had warmed his body from all sides did he look at Mycroft. The man had been watching him with an amused expression.

“Do you want to eat first or tell me what that text you sent me was about?” Mycroft asked, when he had drunk the rest of the alcohol, clearly curious. 

“I don’t think I’m ready to move too far from the fire just yet,” Greg replied and held his hands towards the flames. 

Naturally Mycroft had noticed his gaze flicking towards the cabinet where the whisky was stored. Indicating for Greg to make himself comfortable on the sofa, he fetched a second whisky tumbler from the cupboard and reached into the cabinet to pour a drink for Greg. Mycroft didn’t pour another drink for himself because he knew that having any more on an empty stomach would make him tipsy.

Joining Greg on the sofa, he handed him the glass and looked at the man’s handsome face expectantly. 

Greg felt suddenly very nervous. Maybe he had overstepped, should have asked Mycroft before making assumptions. He bit his lower lip and looked at the golden liquid in the tumbler. 

“Gregory?” Mycroft tilted his head, puzzled by the uncertainty he saw reflected in the brown eyes. “Is something wrong?”

Taking a generous gulp from the glass in his hand, Greg looked into Mycroft’s eyes before he said,  
“I spoke to the Chief Superintendent. I asked him how he would feel about having a Santa Claus or Father Christmas at our Christmas party that’s going to take place at Scotland Yard on the last working day before Christmas. He said that it was a great idea. We haven’t done that in years.”

Mycroft blinked a slightly befuddled expression still on his face. “I fail to see… Oh!” The penny dropped and the blue eyes were suddenly as large as saucers. “You want me to make an appearance as Father Christmas at the Yard’s office party,” Mycroft concluded.

Greg ran his hand through his grey hair and rubbed his neck in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed you would do it on the sole ground that you said you were interested in playing Father Christmas at the Ministry's party. And I'm sure I can return the costume.”

"So that's what's in the garment bag you brought." Greg gave a shrug. "Yeah, but like I said, I'm sure they're willing to take it back." Mycroft was silent for a minute or two. Eventually he took the whisky tumbler from Greg’s hand, drank the remaining alcohol and placed the glass on the table. He took the DI’s hands and kissed his knuckles before he spoke. 

“Gregory, I’m willing to do it but only on one condition.”

“Anything!” Greg replied immediately. 

“Anything?” Mycroft’s eyes twinkled with humour. “Well, my dear, Father Christmas usually has help and I want you to act as my aid.”

“But those are usually elves,” Greg replied, once he had considered what Mycroft had just said.

“Exactly!” 

* * *

Perhaps the idea of Gregory dressed as an elf hadn’t been such a brilliant idea after all, Mycroft wondered when he saw his partner dressed up in the costume for the first time.  
They were in the building of New Scotland Yard and had secured a room where they could change into their costumes without being disturbed, getting ready to make their appearance.  
While tying the string of the sack that held the presents, Mycroft’s gaze roamed over his partner’s lithe body. 

The pastel green colour of the soft tunic Greg wore complimented those impossible chocolate eyes and with the grey strands of hair spiked up and artificial pointed ears attached he looked more boyish than any grown man had any right to do. But the worst element was the tight leggings Gregory wore. The soft material clung to his legs and bottom like a second skin and it was a sight Mycroft wasn’t certain he was willing to share with anybody else. 

When Greg bent down to fasten the curly-toed boots that adorned his feet, Mycroft gave the man’s delectable bottom a gentle pinch. 

“Oy!” His elf gave a startled jump but the slight indignation turned into a grin when he saw Mycroft’s expression.

“You can’t have your wicked way with me now, Mister Christmas,” he said, regret quite audible in his voice. “Those tights are unsuited to hiding anything and I really don’t want to scare the children,” Greg added, waggling his eyebrows salaciously.

“I’ll guard your assets throughout the whole evening,” Mycroft promised solemnly. “Any misdemeanour will be met with immediate punishment.”

“And how do you intend to punish the perpetrators?” Greg inquired, tongue firmly in cheek.  
Mycroft’s eyes darkened as his pupils dilated and Greg swallowed. Better not walk that particular path right now or Father Christmas would deliver the presents with a severe delay. 

“Right!” said Greg, his voice rough. “We better get going. You’ve got everything?” He put the green jelly bag cap on his head.

Mycroft cleared his throat before he checked his own costume one last time in the full length mirror. With the long red coat over red trousers, both with white trimming, he didn’t look too bad. According to Gregory he looked fantastic but the man was somewhat biassed. 

Mycroft had decided against wearing an artificial belly underneath the coat because he wasn’t ready to be photographed as a fat man, even though that shape would be the result of the costume. Furthermore there were plenty of pictures of a slim Father Christmas, as Mycroft had discovered when he had perused material on that topic in the library.  
He wore an artificial, white, neatly trimmed beard though and one of Gregory’s colleagues had applied make-up and turned his eyebrows into a white and rather bushy affair. Last came the cap that sat rather jauntily on his head. 

With a curd nod, Mycroft picked up the sack. Greg opened the door for him and they walked along the corridors to the room where they were eagerly awaited.

* * *

Heads turned as soon as they entered the room, exactly on time. The lights in the room had been dimmed but a spotlight followed Father Christmas and his elf as they tried to walk in accordance with their respective characters. A few ahs and ohs could be heard and even a couple of wolf-whistles, the latter obviously directed at Greg. It was a bit of an effort for Mycroft not to glare but he arrived at his designated spot without incident.

A corner in the room had been cleared where Mycroft/ Father Christmas could sit on an armchair that had been put on a slightly raised platform. There was enough room for the assisting elf to read names from a list and hand over the presents from the sack, and of course for the children.

A group of people had been appointed to the task of buying little presents, all under ₤5, wrap them and put name tags on them. They had done a marvellous job, Mycroft thought. 

His own task sounded easy enough. Smile, hand over the present, perhaps say something clever and smile some more for the photo that would be taken. Unfortunately, the first child whose name was called, immediately began to cry and hid behind their mother’s legs. That wasn’t unheard of and Mycroft decided that there was no need to take it personally. 

When two more children refused to come to him though, Mycroft had to admit that the behaviour made him a little nervous. 

Looking at the list, Greg called the next name, “Aaron!” and handed a wrapped box to Mycroft.  
A pale boy of about five year stepped forward and both Father Christmas and his elf inconspicuously breathed a sigh of relief. The boy took the box that was wrapped in bright-coloured paper from Mycroft's hand with a stoic expression. “Thank you, Father Christmas,” he said politely and then he threw up.

Two women rushed forward, one taking care of the sick little boy who had stuffed himself with too many sweets earlier, the other began cleaning away the mess. 

Fortunately Mycroft’s costume had been spared but Greg’s leggings had caught a bit of the vomit.  
Knowing that the bathroom was just next door, Greg decided that he rather wanted to wipe down his leggings right away. It shouldn’t take more than five minutes for him to return. 

Whispering in Mycroft’s ear, he excused himself and headed for the door. When the door closed behind him, Mycroft tried not to panic. Yes, the evening hadn’t started exactly well for him but surely not all the children would be scared, too shy or get sick once they had received their present. 

Next came a small boy called Bernard who solemnly took his present. When he unwrapped a set of three juggling balls though he looked at Mycroft with a mighty pout. “I don’t like playing with balls,” he declared and threw the set into a big box that had been intended for the gift wrap, before walking back to his parents, his whole posture a mixture of anger and disappointment.  
Because he was watching the boy’s father reprimanding Bernard for his behaviour, Mycroft almost failed to notice that a group of three children was walking up to him.

When Mycroft saw them, he quickly unfolded the list Greg had left for him and smiled at the group.

“And who have we here?” he tried, noticing that his voice didn’t sound very Father Christmas like. 

“You should know my name without that list,” a girl of about seven told him primly. “I think you’re fake.” The other children began to murmur and mutter among themselves while Mycroft felt his cheeks and ears turning red.

Gregory had told him he could tell the children that there were really too many of them to remember all the names and that was why he had the list. But before he could reply a boy of the same age as the girl took a step forward. “I’m Jeremy but I bet you can’t even tell if I’ve been good or naughty,” he accused Mycroft. 

Mycroft recalled the words Gregory had whispered in his ear before he had left to clean up.  
“Remember, love. You’re brilliant. Just be yourself and everything will be fine,” Greg had said, and all of a sudden Mycroft knew what he had to do.

He stood up slowly, deliberately, and the children automatically took a step backwards. Mycroft was tall to begin with and the raised platform provided him with a few inches of extra height. Looking down at the boy who stood in front of him Mycroft studied him from head to toe for a second before he spoke. 

“You, Jeremy, were actually naughty,” he said calmly, “because you tease your cat.” The boy sucked in his breath in shock. “Pulling a cat’s tail is very naughty indeed and you really shouldn’t get a present at all,” Mycroft added.

The boy turned towards a girl, from her looks obviously his baby-sister. “You told him,” he accused her.

“I did not,” said the girl. “He is Father Christmas. He knows stuff.” 

Mycroft had really only seen the cat’s hair on the boys clothes and the scratches on his hands in various stages of healing to draw his conclusions but there was no need to explain that to the children.

The girl who had accused Mycroft of being a fake started to say something but Mycroft now looked at her and she closed her mouth with a click. “And you take your little sister's crayons. Not exactly nice either.” A few minutes earlier Mycroft had seen the girls interact and the colourful traces on the older girl’s hands told their own story.

A small girl with huge green eyes and curly red hair stepped up to him. “I’m Martha,” she introduced herself. “Can you tell me something about me?” 

“You have a dachshund and you play the recorder,” Mycroft replied without hesitation.

* * *

Greg felt really bad for having left Mycroft alone far longer than he had planned but when he had turned on the tab in the bathroom water had shot out and splashed all over him. He could have lived with a somewhat moist costume but looking down he had noticed that it looked as if he had wet his pants. As quickly as he could he wiped down the leg that had been soiled and began drying his leggings with the blast from the hand-dryer. Blast really was too strong of a word for the gentle current that left the device. It took him nearly fifteen minutes before he was able to return.

Whatever he had thought might have happened during his absence he never would have expected the sight that greeted him. Father Christmas sat in his designated armchair with a group of at least ten children at his feet. Greg couldn’t make out what Mycroft was saying but when the man finished speaking a little girl fell on her back, giggling helplessly while clutching a small pink teddy bear to her chest. The biggest surprise though was a small boy sitting in Mycroft’s lap, watching in awe as Mycroft showed him how to juggle with three balls. 

“Didn’t expect the little ones would take him into their hearts after that somewhat rough start,” someone said to Greg.

Turning his head he found to his surprise that it was the Chief Commissioner himself who had addressed him. 

“Yes.” It was probably not very polite, considering the man’s position, but Greg only gave an emphasising nod before he continued watching Mycroft. “He’s very special,” Greg added, smiling stupidly.

“Happy Christmas, Lestrade.”

“Happy Christmas, Sir.”

* * *

It was almost 20.00 h when Greg and Mycroft finally left the party to return to the room where they could change into their street clothes. Walking along the deserted corridor, the chatter and music from the party faded until all was quiet. 

When they reached the hallway they stopped to look at the Christmas tree that had been set up there. Mycroft took Greg’s hand. 

“Thank you for letting me do this,” he said, a soft smile on his face.

“You were amazing. I’m very proud of you.” Greg squeezed Mycroft's hand. “So thank you for doing it.”

Moving closer to Mycroft he wrapped his arm around the man's waist and leaned his head against his shoulder. “I wish I had brought a present that I could give you right now,” Greg said. “I’m feeling very christmassy.”

“Christmassy?” Mycroft asked. “I don’t think that’s a word.” When Greg shrugged he added, “but I know what you mean.”

“In fact,” Mycroft began digging in a pocket of his Father Christmas coat, “I have a present for you.”

Greg looked at him in astonishment. “You do?”

“Well, I am Father Christmas and I happen to know on very good authority that you have been very naughty indeed, Gregory.” Mycroft's eyes twinkled mischievously.

He handed Greg a small box that was adorned with a red bow. “It’s not really a gift; more a suggestion.”

Greg stared at the box for a bit before he replied, “Then I guess there’s not a piece of coal in it.”  
Mycroft only shrugged and smiled so Greg began peeling the bow and the paper away quickly and opened the box. Inside was a key.”

“I know that you already have a key to my house but,” Mycroft swallowed, “but I wanted to ask you to move in permanently to make it our home.”

Greg took the key from the box and closed his fingers tightly around it. Biting his lower lip when he felt tears well up. 

“Yes.” He looked at Mycroft and nodded. “I’d like that very much.”

Noticing only now that a little to the side there was some mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, he gave Mycroft a gently push until the man stood right underneath it. 

“You do know that mistletoe is not required if you want to kiss me?” Mycroft teased, eyeing the green twig with a smile.

“I know.” Greg’s voice was thick with emotion. “And I hope that you know that I love you so fucking very much that right know I fear my heart is going to explode.”

“I love you just as much, Gregory,” Mycroft replied softly. 

Neither men noticed nor would have cared that they still wore their costumes when they moved forward until their lips met, the gentle pressure of their mouths exquisite in its simplicity. Lips parted and tongues touched as they melted into the kiss. Wrapped in each other's arms they kept kissing for long minutes, setting a seal on both their love and joined future.

**Author's Note:**

> I took the title of the story from this quote that I discovered recently: “I caught myself smiling for no reason; then I realized I was thinking about you” by Unknown 
> 
> My heartfelt thanks once again go to my trusted beta @jack63kids
> 
> Camillo1978 provided beautiful artwork for this story. Check out her Tumblr account here: www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/camillo1978 or go to mystrade-advent-calendar.tumblr.com


End file.
